


The Frost is All Over

by Fluterbev



Series: The Irish Saga [6]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Christmas, Dublin (City), Hurt/Comfort, Ireland, Irish music, M/M, Music, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-28
Updated: 2008-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 21:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluterbev/pseuds/Fluterbev
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sixth story in the Irish Saga. It's the Christmas season again, with anniversaries both bitter and sweet. A trip to Dublin doesn't quite work out as planned...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Frost is All Over

**Author's Note:**

> Like many of the stories in this series, the title is taken from the name of a traditional tune.
> 
> Thanks to Luicat, who patiently corrected my typos!

Blair’s new life has long since become his old life. He’s been so busy keeping all the balls he’s juggling in the air that the old flying trapeze back in Cascade, upon which he and Jim once performed acts of derring-do to the appreciative cries of the law-abiding public, have become little more than a distant dream.

Life is still a three-ringed circus much of the time, nevertheless, even though he’s swapped the big top for something more like a sideshow - the pressure to perform and pull results out of a hat didn’t disappear once Blair moved to Ireland to start out afresh as an archaeologist. During his first year he fast-tracked through his Masters degree, completing it in half the usual time by dint of taking twice the usual number of modules despite having teaching responsibilities and digs to work on at the same time. Keeping busy had been one way of keeping his mind occupied and away from topics upon which he really didn’t want to dwell.

Now, six years later and with a PhD in his new specialism under his belt, such musings no longer cause him pain.

One such topic – the big, all-consuming topic of his life – is at this moment wryly staring into a brightly-lit storefront window, which is full of elaborately dressed, eerily pale manikins resplendent amongst top-of-the-range tinsel and glitter. “Well,” Jim says, raising his voice over the loud Christmas music emitting from the store. “It’s different, I guess!”

Blair can feel his inner tour guide asserting itself, so he lets the urge have its head, mostly to see if he can make Jim roll his eyes as usual. “The Christmas display in the window of Brown Thomas is an ancient and venerated institution, man. Whole families come to Dublin from miles around just to see it. It goes back to the days when this store was owned by the Switzer family. No Christmas was complete until you brought your kids up to Grafton Street to see the window display and sit on Santa’s knee!”

Bingo! It worked, just as Blair had known it would. “Whatever you say, Chief.” Jim regards the window he’s nearest to with puzzlement. “What the hell is it supposed to be about?”

Blair squints along the brightly-lit vista too. “In previous Christmases it often depicted scenes from fantasy and mythology,” he said. “You know, Santa’s elves meet the Children of Lír; that kind of thing. Kids used to love it. But this?” Blair studies the manikins in their designer clothes some more. “I think it’s a blatant celebration of consumerism this year,” He concludes. He points at the one window which boasts a brightly decorated carriage, complete with prince and princess. “With a token nod to fantasy thrown in, just to deter old cynics like me from coming along and giving it the slagging it deserves!”

Jim rolls his eyes once more, laughing at Blair’s mock-seriousness. “Okay, Ebenezer. How about we go off and eat, huh? I’m starving.” Jim touches Blair on the back as he steers him away – a subtle gesture, one that could be interpreted as nothing more than a friendly pat, but it makes Blair tingle down to his shoes with the familiar intimacy.

They go for dinner in The Porterhouse, which serves up steaks big enough to satisfy even Jim’s appetite for red meat. It’s a microbrewery too, and Blair happily sips a pint of stout which has been brewed on the premises. He briefly regrets that they didn’t get a dish of Carlingford oysters as a starter, just so he could tease Jim about their supposed aphrodisiac effects.

They plan to head back to their hotel after that, to drop off the bags they’ve accumulated during their shopping expedition. They’re staying here tonight rather than driving back to Ravensdale, which is Blair’s idea because, no matter how much his partner protests that he’s fine, he knows that Jim is feeling his dad’s loss. Tomorrow is the anniversary of William Ellison’s death, and Blair wants desperately to distract him, just for a little while, from the sad memories.

They’ve had a great time so far. It’s been one of those crisp, frosty, winter days that Blair loves, their breaths condensing in the cold air and the sunlight bathing the frost-limned tops of buildings in warm, rosy light. They’ve visited Blair’s favourite haunts -the National Museum on Nassau Street, the Book of Kells at Trinity College - and mooched around in St Stephen’s Green before hitting the shops around Grafton Street. They even headed up to Walton’s at the top end of O’Connell Street earlier, so that Blair could look longingly at the bodhráns. He’s thinking about getting one, so he may go back there tomorrow, although he wants to check out a little music shop he’s heard about on Capel Street first before he takes the plunge.

The one downside to it all is the thing that gets to Blair every time he’s in Dublin. On just about every street corner there’s someone begging; homeless people flushed with cold holding out paper cups in the hope of getting a few bits of loose change. They’re found in every big city, Blair knows, although it’s seemed worse in Dublin the past few years. And something about the juxtaposition of Christmas cheer and extreme poverty is really getting to him today.

After the third time he’s handed out a handful of Euros, Jim stops him. “Chief, come on,” he says. “You can’t singlehandedly fund every transient on the street.”

Blair shrugs helplessly. “I can’t just walk on by, man,” he says. “Some of these people, they’re just kids!”

Jim shakes his head. “It’s your dollar,” he says. “But you know as well as me that in a lot of cases you’re funding someone’s drug habit here. Best to save your money, and give it to some genuine charity that helps the people who’re really in need.”

Blair sighs. “I guess you’re right,” he concedes reluctantly. “It’s just... I want to do something, you know? It doesn’t seem right that we’re shopping for frivolous stuff, when there are people who don’t even know where their next meal is coming from.”

Jim smiles at him gently. “Yeah, I know,” he says. And the fond approval in his gaze warms Blair right through.

Back at the hotel they take showers and can’t help from fooling around a little, even though they’re in a hurry. Eventually, flushed and breathless but presentable nevertheless, they head out again.

The hotel they are staying at is a couple of miles west of the city centre, on the north bank of the Liffey, but the Luas tramway conveniently runs right outside the door so it’s easy to get in and out of town. They ride the tram for a couple of stops and get off at the Four Courts. It’s a short walk from there to their destination - a bar a little off the beaten track, that Blair’s musician friends have told him hosts great traditional music sessions.

Despite setting off a little later than Blair had planned, thanks to their mutual friskiness, it turns out that they are early after all. There are just a couple of musicians sitting in the seats reserved for that purpose, but they haven’t even gotten their instruments out yet. As Blair makes his way towards the bar a couple more people carrying fiddle cases come in and make their way over. Blair and Jim take seats up at the bar near to the musicians, wanting to get a good view.

The barman pours drinks for them, and Blair’s attention is drawn to the half-filled pints of Guinness as they settle atop the bar, the swaying waves of dark liquid strangely hypnotic. Beside him Jim’s presence is like a big, warm bulwark at his side, and Blair feels a rush of happiness at how perfect it all is. He wishes desperately that he could reach out and hold Jim’s hand, and this need must somehow have communicated itself to Jim, as the next moment a comforting touch lands at the small of his back. “Hey,” Jim says softly. “You okay, Chief?”

Blair feels overwhelmed by love and gratitude, and turns the full force of his smile on Jim. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Never better, man!”

The night progresses, the music in this bar every bit as good as he’d been led to believe. Blair recognises one of the fiddlers and the concertina player from the cover of a CD he has at home, and tells Jim so. “Isn’t it great, man?” he says. “These guys, they’re the best of the best, but they come down here and play just for the fun of it, for nothing more than a the satisfaction of doing what they love to do, and as listeners we get to be the lucky beneficiaries. It’s like the ultimate in free expression, existing alongside but separate from the mainstream status quo, where high quality services are exchanged primarily for profit. It’s kinda neat, man. ”

Jim smiles at him indulgently. “I hate to burst your bubble, Chairman Mao, but that last tray of drinks the barman took over? The musicians didn’t pay for that, so I’m guessing your vision of a society built purely on altruistic principles just got blown out of the water. They might not be getting paid with money, but they’re sure getting something out of it apart from love!” As Jim speaks the barman comes past again, carrying a tray laden with sandwiches which he deposits on the musicians’ table.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Blair concedes, as he turns back to the music. “It’s still great though, isn’t it?” His foot is tapping in time, and he’s really getting into it. He can’t wait to finally get his own bodhrán, so he can play in sessions himself.

It’s way after midnight by the time the session ends. They’ve missed the last tram back so Jim and Blair set off walking back to the hotel along the north quay of the Liffey. It’s a cold, clear night, the river frozen along much of its width, the streetlights reflecting shimmeringly across its flat surface. He and Jim jostle each other as they walk, pushing and teasing, both of them relaxed and happy after the pleasant evening they’ve spent and the Guinness they’ve imbibed.

Suddenly Jim pauses, cocking his head in a listening gesture, and Blair instinctively puts a hand on his arm, waiting expectantly for Jim to share what he’s heard – even this far down the line, old habits die hard. It only takes a second. “Oh no,” Jim says. “Come on, Chief.” Then he’s off at a run, Blair following, heart pounding with sudden adrenaline, on his heels.

Jim ducks down a side street and weaves through another. Then he stops and shouts, “Hey! Hey, get away from there!”

Blair comes up close behind and, at last, he can see what’s going on. Two men are looming over a figure bundled up in a sleeping bag, who is slumped in a doorway unmoving under the brutal kicks they are aiming at him. At Jim’s shout the attackers have raised their heads to look. “What the fuck has it got to do with you?” one says, and follows with a string of expletives.

Ever the peacemaker, Blair steps in front of Jim, hands outstretched. “Hey man,” he says. “”We don’t want any trouble here, okay? Just leave the guy alone.”

“Fuck off,” he gets in response. Too late he sees the flash of a knife as the second guy lurches toward him and, as Jim is jerking him backwards, he feels a line of fire open up across his right palm and down his wrist.

Things get a little odd after that, with the sound of angry shouts and flesh impacting upon flesh coming as if from a long way off. The next thing he’s aware of is Jim bending over him, his face white and tense. “Keep still, Blair,” Jim says, and Blair is conscious of immense pressure around his forearm. “Easy.”

Blair is aware enough to realise that he’s been cut, and that he must have passed out which, considering the situations he and Jim used to handle every day, is a little embarrassing. “Sorry,” he says. “Guess I’ve gotten soft, man.”

“Guess you have,” Jim says, smiling at him, but he looks more than a little stressed all the same. “Just keep still,” he says again, as Blair shifts a little, cold seeping through his bones. “An ambulance is on its way. Cops, too.”

Turning his head, Blair sees the two guys laid out on the frosty pavement beside him, unmoving.

He greys out a little then, and the next thing he knows he’s in an ambulance, his hand and arm throbbing in time with his pulse, the sensation of pressure intensely painful. Jim’s not there so he asks after him, but the paramedics either can’t or won’t tell him anything. Time after that goes by in a nightmarish blur, until at last Blair feels a mask being lowered over his face, the bright lights of an operating room rendering the medical personal around him into faceless silhouettes. He’s just got the presence of mind to desperately rasp out, “Jim,” before darkness descends.

He wakes after surgery, unbearably thirsty and with his arm immobilised and tightly bandaged. To his intense relief, Jim is sitting by his side. “Welcome back, Chief,” He says. “How’re you doing?”

“What the hell happened?” Blair remembers the attack – two guys kicking a homeless guy in a doorway, then one of them coming after him with a knife, but it’s all a bit hazy after that.

Jim updates him. The knife severed an artery in Blair’s wrist, and a combination of shock and the sudden and rather dramatic blood-loss was what made him pass out. The injury’s been surgically repaired and he’s been given a tetanus jab. He’ll be on antibiotics and painkillers for a while, and his hand is going to be out of action until it’s healed. Jim reassures him, though, that there probably won’t be any lasting damage, as miraculously the knife missed his tendons.

“Are you okay?” Blair asks, looking at Jim’s pinched, white face. “No one could tell me where you were.”

Jim nods. “I was brought in for questioning,” he says. “I guess I forgot , when I took those scumbags down, that I’m not actually a cop anymore .”

Blair’s heart races, remembering the two men laid out on the ground. “They’re still breathing, right?” he asks.

Jim nods and smiles. “Yeah, they’ll live.” He sobers. “Unlike the poor guy they attacked - he didn’t make it. They really did a number on him. “

Blair feels inexpressively sad, at that. “Oh man. What was it all about?” Blair asks. “He seemed pretty defenceless.”

Jim shakes his head. “I don’t know, Chief. It looked like he was just sleeping in a doorway. Maybe they were trying to rob him, or they had some grudge. Who’s to say why they did it?”

Two Gardai come to talk to Blair later that morning to get his statement. They seem satisfied that neither Jim nor Blair had anything to do with the homeless man’s death, and they tell Jim – who has only briefly left Blair’s side to pick up their belongings and check out of the hotel - that they are not going to press charges for his assault on the man’s killers. “I shouldn’t say this,” Garda Quinn says, “but we’re all impressed by how you managed to apprehend them. Both of them are well known to us - they have previous convictions for drug offenses and violent assault, and the poor old fella they killed didn’t stand a chance. Jesus,” he says sadly. “The poor man had nothing on him worth stealing, but those two are the type who’d kick their own mothers to death if it meant they’d get a couple of quid out of it.” Then the man laughs. “I suppose you American cops know a few tricks. They’re neither of them the worse for wear, and thanks to you they’re away where they can’t do any more harm.”

There’s a bit more talk, and the Garda tells them that they’ll most likely be called as witnesses when the trial comes round, which both of them are more than willing to do. Blair’s really bothered by the senselessness of it all, and he wants to do his bit to ensure that they won’t hurt anyone like that again.

This is not exactly how Blair planned to spend Christmas, so he manages to persuade the hospital to release him - he knows, in any case, that Jim will take good care of him. By late afternoon of Christmas Eve, therefore, they’re back at the cottage. By early evening they’re both in bed, Blair exhausted and half-asleep after taking his pain meds. A fitful night follows during which they lie comfortingly close to each other, both of them waking intermittently through the night as Blair tries to find a sleeping position that won’t jar his arm too much.

It’s not until Blair has used the bathroom the next morning and ingested his next lot of pain meds along with a large mug of coffee that he remembers what day it is. “Oh, man!” He says. “Happy Christmas, Jim!”

Jim’s smiling like the cat that got the cream. He disappears into the spare bedroom and emerges with an enormous parcel. “Happy Christmas Blair,” he says. He helps Blair unwrap it, and lifts the object inside carefully from its box.

Blair is absolutely awestruck. “It’s a bodhrán,” he says.

Jim grins. “You’ve not lost your powers of observation, I see,” he says.

“But how... I mean, oh man, when did you get this?”

Jim hands the drum over into Blair’s good hand and steadies it for him. “You’ve been going on about getting one since that ceili earlier in the year,” he says. “I asked Siobhán to help me pick one out.” He grimaced. “She did so on one condition – I’ve apparently got to make you promise to learn to play it before you take it within a million miles of her.” As Blair looks at him sharply, Jim shrugs. “Her words, Chief. Don’t blame the messenger!”

Blair shakes his head ruefully. Ever since he expressed an interest in this instrument he’s been subjected to a never-ending stream of jokes by the musicians he’s friendly with - apparently bodhrán players are the low man on the traditional music totem pole.

Blair studies the instrument some more, turning it this way and that and hefting the drum stick – the beater - in his left hand. He’s frustrated that he can’t do anything more than look - his right wrist is currently immobilised in a brace, and it’s going to be some time before he’ll be able to even think about playing it.

After a few moments of avid study of his new toy, Blair remembers that gift-giving is a two-way street. “I didn’t get time to wrap your presents,” he tells Jim regretfully. “They’re hidden in the box on top of the wardrobe in the spare room.”

Jim dutifully goes to get the box down, and he smiles as he opens it and looks inside. Blair couldn’t think of any one big thing to get Jim this year, so he’s bought a bunch of smaller stuff. There are a few books in the box he knows Jim will like, ranging from classic American fiction to several on various aspects of woodworking, which is Jim’s current big passion. There are also a couple of DVDs he’s expressed an interest in, as well as various items of clothing Blair had intended as stocking fillers – socks, underwear and tee-shirts.

Jim smiles happily as he gets each item out. “Wow, thanks Chief!” he says. “This is great!”

Blair is a little embarrassed – it all seems so commonplace after the gift Jim has bought for him. But Jim seems genuinely happy with his hoard, if the big, sloppy kiss of gratitude he bestows upon Blair is anything to go by.

***

Blair goes to see his GP the day after Christmas, to get his dressing changed and to check that he’s healing as he should. She lives in Ravensdale, and sees Blair at her house rather than have him go into the surgery in Dundalk.

Afterwards Jim drives them over to Omeath for lunch in the pub, which gradually fills up with walkers who’ve done the annual St. Stephen’s Day trek over the mountain. Blair is pleased to see Siobhán, Joe and some of his other musical friends there – they’ve walked over the mountain as well, and they’ve brought their instruments along for a bit of post-walk craic.

Blair can’t wait to tell them about his bodhrán, which he describes with great enthusiasm. “Oh, and hey, Siobhán?” he says. “Thanks for advising Jim about the right one to get. I really appreciate it!”

The others all start ribbing Siobhán then, for siding with the enemy. She shrugs. “It’s like when your kids want to smoke a fag. Best deterrent is to give ‘em the whole packet, in the hopes that it’ll make ‘em sick.” She looks at Blair. “You’ll thank me for this some day,” she says enigmatically.

There’s a bit of a fuss made about Blair’s injury. It seems that Jim’s apprehending of the two thugs made the news on RTE and, as is usually the case, everyone in the pub knows about it already – it’s hard to keep anything quiet in rural Ireland. Both Blair and Jim find themselves turning down several insistent offers to buy them drinks – Jim is driving, Blair is on medication, and both of them can only handle a finite amount of Ballygowan, red lemonade or cola.

The music starts and the atmosphere in the pub is festive and fun. Blair’s pretty tired, though – his pain meds tend to make him sleepy so, after a pleasant hour or two, they decide to head home, although not before Blair has managed to invite several people, including the musicians, over to their cottage for a celebratory drink on New Year’s Eve.

Back home Blair goes for a lie down and, to his delight, Jim comes to join him. Jim is treating him with kid gloves though, keeping his distance in the bed in an effort not to accidentally jar Blair’s hand. This is not entirely satisfactory so Blair points out the beneficial effect that increased endorphin production allegedly has on pain. Jim gets with the programme quickly after that, and a few moments later Blair is gasping and sighing happily as Jim proves the theory correct.

***

As the end of year approaches, both Jim and Blair are in festive mood. This whole season is poignant for them, but New Year’s Eve in particular – or more accurately the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve – is their anniversary. It was one year ago today that they finally stopped dancing around each other, and made a commitment to stay together for good.

The big day dawns bright and frosty, the lawn and hedges covered in a layer of ice crystals and making the setting of their home look even more like something out of a fairy-tale than ever. While it’s still early Blair and Jim head out to walk to the nearby dolmen. There, standing together under the massive capstone, they kiss and thank the gods of the ancient monument for granting the dearest wishes of their hearts.

Temporarily crippled as he is, Blair’s not been able to help much with the preparations for their party, but they’ve bought in food and drink nevertheless and, as day turns into night, a steady stream of neighbours and friends call in to visit, some of them staying briefly and others remaining longer to chat and have the craic.

To Blair’s delight, as the evening progresses, Siobhán and the other musicians arrive and set up shop around the kitchen table. He’s aching to join in, and brings out his bodhrán to show them.

Siobhán, as usual, takes no prisoners. She hefts the bodhrán in her hand and brandishes the beater. “Hey Blair?” She says. “You know what the best thing is for playing one of these old yokes?”

Blair is all ears – he really wants to learn all he can. “No, what?”

Siobhán grins. “A penknife,” she says.

“Yeah, yeah.” Blair is not impressed. “Don’t quit your day job, all right?” he tells her. But then he watches avidly as she hefts the beater and does an incredible job of playing it herself. For someone who professes an intense hatred of the things, she’s certainly no slouch at making it sound fantastic. Blair decides that he’ll ask her to give him some lessons, just to watch her reaction.

Hours pass, the cottage filled with music and conversation and laughter. The party is everything Blair could have hoped but, as midnight approaches, an imperative desire to be alone with Jim begins to needle him. He catches Jim’s eye only to see a similar hunger reflected there. So a couple of minutes before midnight he nods over to Jim and, as one, they head outside into the garden.

It’s pitch black out here, the clear night sky dotted with stars. The grass of the lawn crunches underfoot, frozen solid, but neither of them are cold as they embrace and kiss hungrily. As the fireworks start to go off explosively all around them on the horizon, Blair looks up into Jim’s shadowed face. “I love you,” he breathes.

Ever a man who speaks best in gestures, Jim crushes Blair to him in a hug and gives him a kiss which takes his breath away.

Behind them, they hear the other revellers come out of the cottage to watch the fireworks as the year turns. There are hugs and kisses all round then, as well as a few manly handshakes. No one comments on the fact that Jim and Blair were, just a moment ago, in a clinch, but Siobhán catches Blair’s eye and grins knowingly.

They are all about to head off back inside when Jim cocks his head. “I know this sounds ridiculous, Chief,” he says. “But I swear I can hear bagpipes.”

After a second, Blair can hear them too. “What in the world?” he asks. The sound is eerie, ethereal, and unmistakeably getting closer.

Siobhán and the others start to chuckle. “I wondered if he’d turn up,” she says. “It’s Frank doing the rounds. I told him there’d be a few tunes here tonight.” At their questioning looks, Siobhán tells them, “He’s an old fella who lives up towards Anaverna. He plays at all the local weddings and funerals. He’s no great shakes on the pipes, to be honest. But he’s great craic.”

Blair blinks. “I thought you had to sit down to play the Irish pipes,” he says. Which, clearly, their visitor is not doing since, right at this moment, he’s walking up the lane.

“You’re thinking of uilleann pipes, with the bellows,” Siobhán tells him. “Frank’s playing the war pipes. Mouth blown, same as Scottish bagpipes - we invented the fecking things, you know!”

Blair senses that there is a whole etymological and historical debate to be had there about the origins of various bagpipes, but wisely keeps silent. In any case, there is no time for further discussion as Frank is now walking up the path, blowing for all he’s worth. He continues playing until he reaches the waiting throng, then stops. “Happy new year!” he intones in a booming voice, his pipes groaning dramatically as the bag deflates.

Jim and Blair smile at each other, shaking their heads in amusement at it all. Then they usher everyone inside where a bottle of Connemara malt whiskey – brewed right here at the distillery in Cooley - awaits, ready for they and their visitors to drink a health to the forthcoming year.

_Sláinte!_

_  
_

End


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